Cold Is The Grave

15

Banks and Annie watched Barry Clough walking along the corridor toward them, his police escort following behind, along with another man. Banks noted the Paul Smith suit, the ponytail, the matching gold chain and bracelet, the cocky, confident strut, and thought: pillock.

“Sorry to get you out of bed so early, Barry,” he said, opening the door to interview room 2, the smallest and smelliest interview room they had. It passed the PACE regulations about the same way Banks’s old Cortina had passed its final MOT test: barely.

“You’d better have a damn good reason for dragging me halfway across the country,” Clough said cheerfully. “One my lawyer will understand.” He gave Annie an appraising look, which she ignored, then turned to the man who had followed him down the corridor.

“Simon Gallagher,” the man said. “And I’m the lawyer in question.”

And very questionable indeed you look, thought Banks. For once, the client looked better-dressed than the lawyer, but Banks was willing to bet that Gallagher’s casual elegance cost every bit as much as Clough’s Paul Smith, and that it had been thrown together at short notice. He was also willing to bet that, appearances aside, Gallagher was sharp as a tack and very well-versed in the intricacies of criminal law. He was in his late twenties, Banks guessed, with a heavy five o’clock shadow, and his dark hair hung in greasy strands over his collar. He also had that edgy, wasted look of someone who stays up too late at too many clubs and takes too many class-A drugs. He sniffed the stale air of the interview room and pulled a face.

Annie turned on the tape recorders and went through the preamble, then she sat beside Banks, a little out of Clough’s line of vision. On the periphery, Banks had told her, she could remain unnoticed or distract him with a movement if she wished.

“Can we get on with it?” Gallagher said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got an important appointment back in the City this evening.”

Banks smiled. “We’ll do our best to make sure you don’t miss it, Mr. Gallagher.” Then he turned to Clough. “Do you have any idea why we want to talk to you?”

Clough held out his hands, palm open. “None at all.”

“Okay. Let’s start with Emily Riddle. You do admit to knowing her?”

“I knew her as Louisa Gamine. You know that. You came to my house.”

“But you now know that her real name was Emily Louise Riddle?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find out?”

“I told you. I saw it in the papers.”

“Are you sure you didn’t know before that?”

“How could I?”

“Perhaps the room in your house, the room in which I talked to her, was wired for sound?”

Clough laughed and glanced over at Simon Gallagher. “Get that, Simon. That’s a laugh, eh? My house bugged.” He looked at Banks again, no longer laughing. “Now you tell me why I’d want to do something like that?”

“Information?”

“What sort of information?”

“Business information?”

“I don’t eavesdrop electronically on my clients or my partners, Chief Inspector. Besides, it’s my home we’re talking about, not my office.”

“Let’s leave that for the moment, then, shall we?” Banks went on. “What was your relationship with Emily Riddle?”

“Relationship?”

“Yes. You know, the sort of thing human beings have with one another.”

Clough shrugged. “I fucked her once in a while,” he said. “She was okay in bed. A hell of a lot better than she was at giving blow jobs.”

“Is that all?”

“What do you mean, is that all?”

“Did you ever do anything else together? Talk, for example?”

“I suppose we must have, though I can’t say I remember a word she said.”

“Did you ever tell her anything about your business interests?”

“Certainly not. If you think I’d go around telling some bimbo about my business, you must be crazy.”

“Did she live with you?”

“She lived in the same house.”

“In Little Venice?”

“Yes.”

“Did she live with you?”

“We were together some of the time. It’s a big house. Sometimes guests come and forget to leave for a long time. You can get lost in there. You should know. You’ve seen it. Twice.”

“Is this what happened with Emily? She sort of got lost in your big house?”

“I suppose so. I don’t remember how she got there.”

“A party?”

“Probably.”

“Did you sleep together?”

“We didn’t do much sleeping.”

“Look, Chief Inspector,” Gallagher chipped in, “this all seems pretty innocuous, as the girl in question was of legal age, but I can’t really see where it’s getting us.”

“Did Emily Riddle know anything at all about your business dealings, Barry?”

“No. Not unless she spied on me.”

“Is that possible?”

“Anything’s possible. I’m careful, but…”

“What exactly is your business?”

“Bit of this, bit of that.”

“More specifically?”

Clough looked at Gallagher, who nodded.

“I manage a couple of fairly successful rock bands. I own a bar in Clerkenwell. I also promote concerts from time to time. I suppose you could call me a sort of impresario.”

“An impresario.” Banks savored the word. “If you say so, Barry.”

“Has a sort of old-fashioned ring to it, don’t you think? ‘Sunday Night at the London Palladium’ and all that.”

“Were you worried that Emily Riddle might have known too much about this impresario business of yours?”

“No. Why would I?”

“You tell me.”

“No.”

“Did she ever indicate that she did? Did she ask you for money, for example?”

“You mean blackmail?”

“Did she?”

“Emily? No. I told you, she was just some young bimbo I used to fuck, that’s all.”

“And now she’s dead.”

“And now she’s dead. Sad, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Banks, reining in his rising temper. “It is.”

Clough got to his feet. “Is that it, then? Can we go now?”

“Sit down, Barry. You’ll go when I tell you to go.”

Clough looked at Gallagher, who nodded again.

“Did you see Emily at all after she left London?”

“No. Easy come, easy go.”

“Were you at Scarlea House between December the fifth and December the tenth this year?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Oh, come on, Barry. You were there for the grouse shooting. You had your minder Jamie Gilbert with you and a young woman in tow. Amanda Khan. The pop singer.”

“Oh, yes. I remember now.”

“Last time I asked you, you said you were in Spain at that time.”

I get confused. I do a lot of travelling. What can I say? But I remember now.”

“You didn’t see Emily while you were staying in the area?”

“Why would I? Amanda gives far better head.”

“For old time’s sake?”

“Let go and move on. That’s my motto.”

“Perhaps to give her a glassine envelope of cocaine laced with strychnine?”

“Chief Inspector,” said Gallagher, “you’re treading in dangerous territory here. Be careful.”

“Did you?” Banks asked Clough.

“Now where would I get hold of strychnine?”

“I daresay you’d have your sources. Cocaine wasn’t much trouble, was it?”

“You know as well as I do, Chief Inspector, that there’s probably enough of that stuff around at any given moment to pay off the national debt. If you like that sort of thing. Not for me, of course. But strychnine… I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“While you were at Scarlea, did you have dinner with Chief Constable Jeremiah Riddle?”

“What if I did?”

“How did you know him?”

“Mutual acquaintance.”

“Bollocks, Barry. When Emily left, with the information you’d overheard from our conversation, you found out who she really was, where she lived. And when you found that her father was a senior-ranking policeman, you tried to move in and blackmail him.”

“Chief Inspector,” Simon Gallagher broke in, “I’m going to have to ask you to stop these absurd insinuations. If you want to question my client, go ahead and question him in the prescribed manner.”

“I apologize,” said Banks. “Why did you have dinner with Chief Constable Riddle?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I already have.”

Clough seemed surprised at that, but he soon regained his composure. “We talked about his daughter. And if he told you anything different, then he’s a liar.”

“How did you feel when Emily left you?”

“Come again?”

“You heard what I said.”

“Feel? I didn’t feel anything, really. Why would I? I mean she was only-”

“Some bimbo you used to fuck? Yes, yes, so you said before. No need to keep on repeating yourself. But you don’t like your bimbos to run out on you, do you? You prefer to give them the boot yourself.”

“That’s exactly what happened. She’d served her purpose. It was time to move on. She didn’t get the message, so I had to help her along a bit.”

“By trying to toss her into bed with Andrew Handley?”

“Andy Pandy? What’s he got to do with this?”

“You do admit to knowing him, then?”

“He works for me from time to time.”

“Not anymore, Barry. He’s dead.”

“What? Andy? Dead? I don’t believe it.”

“He was found shot to death near Exmoor. Know anything about that?”

“Of course I don’t. It’s…”

“Sad?”

“Yeah. Andy was all right.”

“Is that why you pushed Emily into a room with him?”

“I did no such thing. I’ve told you before. If she went into a room with Andy, she went on her own accord.”

“Sure he didn’t get tired of taking your leftovers and decide to strike out for himself?”

“Look, Chief Inspector, my client has answered all these questions before. Unless there’s anything new-”

“Gregory Manners,” said Banks.

“Who?” said Clough.

“Gregory Manners. He ran the PKF operation for you at Daleview. Remember, I told you. Their van got hijacked on the way to a new location, and the night watchman at Daleview was murdered. Oddly enough, it was the same MO as the Andrew Handley murder.”

“I vaguely remember you going on about that when you came to the house with that other copper. I didn’t understand why then, and I don’t now.”

“Right. So what about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Barry. We found Gregory Manners’s fingerprints on a whole stack of bootlegged games and software. That’s what you were doing at PKF. A big operation. you had multidisc copying machines, and they were in that van. Andy Pandy wanted to break away, didn’t he, go into business by himself? So he hatched a plot with the night watchman at Daleview. Charlie Courage had already figured out there was something dodgy going on at PKF – Charlie had a nose for that sort of thing – and you were paying him off. Then Andy comes along with a better offer. They arrange it to look like a hijack, but your lads pick up Gregory Manners first, and he tells you he thought there was something fishy going on between Charlie and Andy Pandy. Then you pick up Charlie, and he tells all. So they kill Charlie, and then they kill Andy Pandy. Isn’t that how it went?”

Clough turned his head slowly to Gallagher and raised his eyebrows. “Am I missing something, Simon?” he said. “I am Barry Clough, aren’t I? Mr. Banks here seems to have me confused with some criminal named Gregory Manners.”

Gallagher stood up. “Chief Inspector, you’ve got an active imagination, I’ll say that. But you can’t corroborate any of this. You haven’t a single shred of evidence connecting my client to either of these men.”

“Mr. Manners is still helping us with our inquiries,” Banks lied. “We have every reason to believe he’ll tell us what he knows when he realizes the full extent of the charges that might be brought against him.”

Clough gave Banks a stony gaze. “So what?” he said.

“What about Andrew Handley?” Banks said to Gallagher. “Your client has already admitted to knowing him.”

“But that doesn’t mean he had anything to do with Mr. Handley’s unfortunate demise.”

“‘Unfortunate demise?’” Banks repeated. “Andrew Handley’s upper body was shredded by a close-range shotgun wound. I’d hardly call that an unfortunate fucking demise.”

“Unfortunate turn of phrase,” muttered Gallagher. “And there’s no need to swear at me.”

“We’re all adults here, aren’t we? And I’m hardly the first.”

“There’s a lady present,” said Clough, grinning at Annie.

“Fuck you,” said Annie.

Gallagher waved his hands in the air. “All right, all right, ladies and gentlemen. Can we all just calm down a minute and get back on track? If there is a track.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gallagher,” said Banks. “I believe we were talking about Andrew Handley.”

“All right,” said Clough. “Yes. I knew him. He worked for me sometimes.”

“Doing what?”

“Managing things. I delegate a lot.”

Banks laughed out loud.

“Chief Inspector!”

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it. Delegate. Right. Would you say the two of you were friends?”

“Not really. We might have a drink together every now and then, talk about business, but other than that, no. I don’t know what he got up to.”

“Nor he you?”

“Suppose not.”

“Do you own a shotgun, Barry?”

“Do I look like a fucking farmer?”

“You certainly have plenty of guns at your London house.”

“They’re all deactivated and all legal. I’m a collector.”

“So you don’t own a shotgun?”

“I’ve already told you.”

“No, you haven’t. You didn’t answer my question. Do you own a shotgun?”

“No.”

Banks paused a moment. “Then what did you use for shooting grouse at Scarlea? A peashooter?”

Gallagher put his head in his hands.

“They have guns available to their guests. For rental.”

“Oh, come off it, Barry. Do you expect me to believe that a keen regular grouse shooter like you doesn’t own a shotgun? I find that difficult.”

“Believe what you want.”

“We can check.”

“Okay, okay. So maybe I own a shotgun.”

“Then why didn’t you say so?”

“Because the way things are going it looks as if you’re trying to pin a fucking murder on me and my fucking lawyer is-”

“Barry!” said Gallagher. “shut up. Just shut up. Okay? Let me take care of it.”

“Lying just makes it worse,” said Banks. He tipped Annie the nod and she officially terminated the taped interview.

“What’s going on?” Clough asked. “Can I go now?”

“Afraid not, Barry,” said Banks. “We’ll be issuing a warrant for your shotgun to be examined by forensic experts in the murders of Andrew Handley and Charles Courage.”

Clough smiled. “Go ahead. If I did have anything to do with those murders, which I didn’t, do you think I’d be stupid enough to use my own shotgun and leave it lying around the house?”

Banks smiled back. “Probably not,” he said. “But it doesn’t really matter. At least a forensic examination will settle things one way or another, won’t it? We’re also looking into some tire tracks found at the murder scenes. In the meantime you can sample some of our legendary northern hospitality.”

“You mean I can’t go?”

Banks shook his head.

“Simon?”

“Your lawyer will tell you we can detain you for twenty-four hours, Barry. Any period of time after that has to be okayed by a more senior officer than me. But if you think that’s likely to be a problem, remember that Emily Riddle was our chief constable’s daughter, you know.”

“He can’t do this, can he, Simon?”

“I’m afraid he can,” said Gallagher, staring at Banks. “But any detention longer than twenty-four hours will come under very severe scrutiny, I can assure you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better cancel my appointment.”

Banks opened the door and asked the uniformed officers to escort Clough to the custody suite in the station’s basement. “You’ll be well taken care of, Barry,” Banks said. “Soon be lunchtime. Beefburger and chips, I think it is today. Sorry there’s no Château Margeaux to accompany it. You might be able to get a mug of tea. Careful you don’t crease your Paul Smith.”

While Banks went to pay another visit to the Riddle house, Annie wandered into the incident room to see what was going on. It was a hive of activity; most of the phone lines were busy and the fax machines were churning stuff out. DC Rickerd held sway over it all, a man who had truly found himself. He blushed when Annie gave him a wink.

Poor Winsome was back at the computer, a stack of green sheets for input and another stack she had already entered.

“How’s it going?” Annie asked, picking up the entered stack and idly leafing through it. Just because everything went into HOLMES didn’t mean any of it was ever seen again, not unless some sort of link or connection came up, and then you had to be looking for it.

Winsome smiled. “Okay, I suppose. Sometimes I wish I’d never done that damn course, though.”

“I know what you mean,” said Annie. “Still, it’ll come in useful when you sit your boards.”

“I suppose so.”

Annie was hardly reading the information on the entered sheets, more just letting her gaze slip over them, but something she saw on one of them reached out and smacked her right between the eyes. “Winsome,” she said, picking it out and putting it on the desk. “What happened with this?”

Winsome scrutinized the sheet. “DCI Banks signed off on it yesterday,” she said. “No further action.”

“‘No further action,’” Annie repeated under her breath.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” said Annie quickly, replacing the sheet in the pile. “Nothing. Just curious, that’s all. See you later.”

Annie hurried back to her office, aware of Winsome’s puzzled gaze, noticed she had it all to herself, picked up the telephone and dialed an outside line.

“Hotel Fifty-Five,” the answering voice said. “Can I help you?”

“Mr. Poulson?”

“Oh, you want Roger. Just a minute.”

Annie waited a minute and another voice came on the line. “Roger Poulson here. Can I help you?”

“Detective Sergeant Cabbot, Eastvale CID. I understand you phoned our incident room yesterday with information relating to the death of Emily Riddle?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Poulson said. “It was just an odd coincidence, that’s all.”

“Tell me about it anyway, Mr. Poulson.”

“Well, as I said to the gentleman yesterday-”

“What gentleman?”

“The policeman who called me back yesterday. I didn’t catch his name.”

I’ll bet you didn’t, thought Annie, and we’d have heard no more about it if I hadn’t come across the name and number by accident. Hotel Fifty-Five. It was where she had stayed with Banks when they visited London in connection with the Gloria Shackleton case. When they were lovers.

“What did he say?” Annie asked.

“He simply took the details and thanked me for calling. To be honest, I didn’t expect to hear any more of it. He didn’t sound very interested. Why? Has something turned up?”

Annie felt a tightness in her chest. “No,” she said. “Nothing like that. It’s just down to me to keep the paperwork up-to-date. You know what it’s like.”

“Tell me about it,” said Poulson. “How can I help you?”

“If you’d just go over the information again briefly…?”

“Of course. As I said, it’s nothing, really. It was about a month ago, when I was on night duty. I think I saw her, the girl who was killed.”

“Go on.”

“At least, she looked sort of like the girl in the newspaper photo yesterday, with her hair up, a nice evening gown. Mostly it’s the eyes and lips, though. I’d almost swear it was her.”

“You say you saw her at the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“Was she a guest?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she walked in – I think she’d just got out of a taxi – and said she wanted to see her father.”

“Her father?” Annie was confused. She didn’t know that Jimmy Riddle had been down to London looking for his daughter, only Banks. She felt icy water rising fast around her ankles.

“That’s right. She said he was staying here. I had no reason not to believe her.”

“Of course not. What did you do?”

“I called his room and told him his daughter was in the lobby, wanting to see him, and she was in a bit of a state. Naturally, he told me to send her up. The thing was, you see, she looked very disheveled, as if she’d been attacked or involved in some rough stuff. Natural to come to Daddy under such circumstances, even if it was three o’clock in the morning.”

“When you say rough stuff, what exactly do you mean?”

“Nothing really serious, but there was a tear in her dress and a little blood at the corner of her lip.”

“What happened after she’d gone up?”

“Nothing. I mean, I didn’t see anything. I was on duty until eight o’clock the next morning, and I didn’t see either of them again.”

“So she stayed in his room the rest of the night?”

“Yes.”

The cold water was up to Annie’s navel by now and she decided to plunge right in. Sometimes it was the best way. “What was her father’s name?”

“Well, it wasn’t Riddle, like it says in the paper. As I said to your colleague yesterday, that’s why I thought it was funny. So I pulled the credit card slip. He’s stayed with us here before, I remember. Once with a very attractive young lady. His name is Banks. Alan Banks.”

The shock numbed Annie’s blood, even though she had been half expecting it. She thanked Mr. Poulson, then hung up in a daze. Banks. In a hotel room with Emily Riddle half the night. The same hotel he’d taken Annie to. And he hadn’t told her. This put a new complexion on things indeed.

Banks slipped the tape he had made of Brian’s band’s CD in the cassette player and reflected on his interview with Clough as he drove out to the Old Mill. Clough was still cooling his heels in the holding cells, but they wouldn’t really be able to hold him much after the following morning. Gallagher was right about that. Any infringement of PACE because Clough was a suspect in the murder of the chief constable’s daughter would go down very badly indeed and only increase his chances of getting off scot-free. That was how things were now. In the old days, they used to be different, of course, and Banks still wasn’t certain which was best. He just hoped to hell that some of the information he was desperate for arrived before the deadline.

The question he always came back to, though, was that if Clough had killed Emily, what was his motive? Clough was an astute gangster, surely smart enough not to let an affair with a sixteen-year-old girl ruin the rest of what was clearly a charmed and profitable life. Still, Banks thought, remembering the famous gangsters of movieland – James Cagney, Edward G. Robinson – there were plenty of mob bosses who were also psychopaths and killed for reasons other than pure business. If Banks were Clough, though, when he found out that Emily had gone and then discovered she was a chief constable’s daughter, he would have cut his losses and left well enough alone. But perhaps that was why Banks wasn’t Clough.

Had Emily really been doing something foolish, like trying to blackmail Clough? Banks didn’t think so. She was a mixed-up kid, but he didn’t think she was a blackmailer. He had also got the feeling from talking to her that she was genuinely scared of Clough, and that the more permanent distance there was between them, the better. Besides, her family didn’t lack for money, and as Riddle had pointed out at the start, they had spoiled her rotten. Even so, the idea of an undisclosed income of her very own might appeal. But would it overcome her fear?

Also, why would Clough wait so long to kill her if he was after revenge for her leaving? It was over a month since Banks had brought Emily back from London. Perhaps it had taken him that long to find out who and where she was. Or perhaps it had taken her that long to start blackmailing him. There had been no telephone calls to Clough on Riddle’s phone records, but that didn’t necessarily mean Emily hadn’t called him from a public box. Something about the sparse phone records nagged at his mind, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. Never mind. As his mother always said, if it was that important, it would come to the surface soon enough.

He showed his warrant card to the officers at the end of the lane, and they waved him through. A hundred yards farther on, he pulled up on the gravel drive outside the Old Mill and turned off the engine. The rain had stopped but it had swelled the millrace, which sounded even louder and faster than on his last visit.

This time, Riddle wasn’t watching for his arrival. He wondered if Rosalind had told him Banks was coming. He hoped not. He knocked at the door and waited. Nothing. Surely Riddle couldn’t have gone back to work already? He knocked again, harder, in case the noise from the stream was covering the sound. Still nothing.

Banks stepped back a few paces from the front door and looked at the front of the house. No windows open. It was a dull afternoon, and someone at home might have put a light or two on, but none showed. Perhaps Riddle had gone out, maybe for a long drive to think things over. Banks felt relief. He had come to fulfill his promise to Rosalind, but it wasn’t his fault if Riddle wasn’t home. What more could he do?

But surely, if Riddle had gone out, the duty officers would have told Banks?

It was then that he became aware of another faint noise beyond the sound of the rushing millrace. At first, it didn’t mean much, then, when he realized what it was, it sent a chill through him.

It was coming from the converted barn, and it was the sound of a car engine idling.

Banks dashed toward the barn, doubting his own ears at first, but there was no mistaking the smooth purr of the German engineering. The garage door was closed but not locked. Banks bent and grasped the handle, pulling as he moved back, and the door slid up smoothly and silently on its overhead runners. The stink of exhaust fumes hit him immediately, and he staggered back, digging his hands in his raincoat pocket for a handkerchief. He couldn’t find one, but he went in anyway with his forearm over his nose and mouth.

It was dark and smoky inside the garage, and Banks couldn’t make out very much at first. His eyes adjusted as he moved inside, noticing that rolled-up cloths or towels had been placed against the gap between the floor and bottom of the garage door on the inside. He did the best he could to keep the fumes at bay, covering his mouth and nose with one hand, breathing only as little as necessary. At least now air from outside was displacing the carbon monoxide.

When Banks got to the car, he could see Riddle slumped across the two front seats. There was no way of knowing yet whether he was dead, so Banks first tried to open a door. They were all locked. He looked around and found a crowbar on one of the shelves. Standing back and swinging it hard, he broke open one of the back windows to avoid disturbing the front, reached inside and disengaged the lock mechanism. Then he opened the front door at the driver’s side, reached across Riddle and turned off the engine. The fumes were dissipating slowly now the garage doors stood wide open, but Banks was beginning to feel nauseated and dizzy.

He felt for a pulse and found none. Riddle’s whole face was as red as his bald head got when he was angry. Cherry-red. The hosing he had rigged from the exhaust to the back window was still in place. He had opened the window a crack to admit it and stuffed the opening with oil-stained rags.

Riddle was wearing his uniform, everything polished, shiny in order, apart from the thin streak of yellowish vomit down his front. Above the dashboard was a sheet of paper with handwriting on it. Leaving it where it was, Banks leaned over and squinted. It was short and to the point:

The game’s over. Please take care of Benjamin and try to ensure that he doesn’t think too ill of his father. I’m sorry.

JERRY.

Banks read it again, angry tears pricking at his stinging eyes. You bastard, he thought, you selfish bastard. As if his family hadn’t suffered enough already.

Groggy and sick, Banks stumbled outside and made it to the millrace before he emptied out his lunch. He bent over and took handfuls of cold clear water and splashed it over his face, drinking down as much of it as he could manage. He knew that there were two officers only a hundred yards away, but he wasn’t sure his legs would carry him that far, so he went back to his car, picked up his mobile and called the station, then he bent forward, put his hands on his knees and took deep breaths as he waited for the circus to begin.